


The Scratch of a Quill

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, adorable gaybies, founding father boners, friends with lots of benefits, grumpy alexander, nurse!laurens, these two cinnamon rolls, they just deserve to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6269563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton doesn’t sleep. Well, not very well, anyway. Maybe Laurens can fix that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scratch of a Quill

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the smuttiest thing I've ever written, which is sad, because it's not smutty at all. But I enjoyed writing it very much, especially the part where I had to figure out who would be the "big spoon." May thanks to merindab for beta-ing and suggesting the title. Enjoy!

_“Damn it all to hell!”_

Laurens froze with his hand on the door, a sudden flood of expletives issuing from somewhere inside jolting his sleep-fogged brain into wariness. It was at least two hours before dawn, and the camp was asleep—or rather, should have been asleep. Someone was burning the midnight oil, and Laurens had a pretty good idea of who that “someone” was.

The cursing grew louder and more agitated as he pushed past the heavy tapestries separating the main living space with the smaller, private work areas. The threadbare rug muffled his footsteps enough that he was sure his approach was unheeded. He paused on the threshold, the flickering glow of a lamp within speckling his face and hands in amber light as he pushed his way into the inner room.

His arrival coincided with a strangled cry and the sound of shattering pottery.

“Alexander?”

His friend’s face was flushed when their eyes met, his mouth twisted as he struggled for a composure that was proving elusive.

“John,” Hamilton said, attempting a smile that manifested itself in a grimace instead. “I woke you. Forgive me.”

“I was already awake,” John replied, stepping further into the room. “Are you all right?” He could hear his voice rising with concern as he stepped around the oak desk, but he had no time to be self-conscious as the totality of the damage became clear.

Laurens’ eyes fell first on the shards of an inkwell littering a carpet spattered black with dye; next, on the mess of loose parchments scattered across the floor like dry autumn leaves cast to the wind. Behind him, he heard Alexander fall heavily into his chair, and when Laurens turned around, he noticed a trickle of crimson tracing a path from the upturned palm of his friend’s left hand into the starched cuff of his undershirt.

“Alexander,” he cried, “what have you done to yourself?”

Hamilton’s eyes darkened as he lifted his hand to glare at the damage. A fresh, angry wound stretched from the base of his thumb almost to his wrist, blood staining the gash red and dripping thickly from where a blade had rent the flesh.

“I’ve ruined it,” Hamilton growled, slamming the other fist down onto the tabletop where a ream of parchment lay, half-covered with the elegant black scrawl with which Laurens was so familiar, stained with a fresh splash of blood where a signature should have been. “It was nearly perfect; it only needed a few lines more, and when I made to sharpen my quill, my hand slipped and…” 

He seemed incapable of completing the thought, his shoulders shaking with self-contempt. 

Laurens knelt slowly in front of his friend, leveling his eyes with Hamilton’s, and put his hands on each side of the other man’s face.

“You’re exhausted,” he said, enunciating each syllable as though he were speaking to a child. “You’ll do yourself real harm if you continue on this way. Washington doesn’t expect that letter to be sent out until the end of the week. Take a break, Alexander, and take care of yourself!”

Hamilton scoffed, looking away to glare at a spot on the wall just above Laurens’ head. Laurens sighed.

“Well, if you won’t take care of yourself, I will.”

And with that, Laurens took off his waistcoat and removed his undershirt, kneeling bare-chested as he took a knife from his pocket and began to cut strips from the hem of the garment. Hamilton started to protest, but Laurens shushed him and continued until he had procured several lengths of clean, white fabric. One of these he used to blot the blood that had begun to dry on Hamilton’s palm, soaking it first in a bucket of water that had been left out from the morning ablutions. Gently, he traced the lines of red where they inched down Hamilton’s wrist until the skin was clean and he could use the remaining, dry bandages to wrap the injured hand snuggly. 

As Laurens continued his ministrations, Hamilton felt a blush spread across his cheeks. He hoped Laurens wouldn’t push up his sleeve; if he did, he would certainly find a trail of gooseflesh spreading out from where his fingers had touched Hamilton’s skin. Every nerve seemed alive to the places where Laurens’ hands brushed against his, and when Laurens looked up at him, Hamilton felt sure that he could read the desire on his face.

“There,” Laurens said, his voice barely a whisper. “If you’re lucky, it won’t scar. But it would serve you right. What were you thinking?”

Hamilton started to reply, but the words stuck in his throat as Laurens lowered his face to the bandaged hand and pressed his lips tenderly to the center of his palm. Hamilton felt his breath quicken, felt his heart pound violently against his ribs as Laurens proceeded to kiss each fingertip, pausing on the tip of his bandaged thumb.

“J-john, you...” Hamilton stammered, unable to find suitable words.

Laurens looked up, a wide grin spread across his face.

“Well, would you look at that? Alexander Hamilton, speechless! I never thought I would live to see the day. If the boys knew it was this easy to shut you u—.”

It was Laurens’ turn to be silenced. Hamilton leaned down, clasping the back of Laurens’ head with his uninjured hand and bridging the space between them until their lips met. There was a moment of uncertainty as each man’s mouth strove for purchase on the other’s. Hamilton felt the vibration of Laurens' chuckle tickle all the way down his throat as the other man stood just long enough to climb into his lap. Hamilton was suddenly very much aware of the tightness in his breeches, but Laurens didn’t seem to mind. Each kiss seemed strategically placed to elicit the maximum response, and Hamilton felt his body come alive in ways it had never done before. A niggling part of his brain wondered where Laurens had learned such things, whether he practiced them on his wife – but no, those thoughts were pointless. Besides, it was hard to concentrate with Laurens’ hands twisted in his hair, his chest gently pressing against Hamilton’s and setting his heart aflame with desires that had hitherto been kept safely guarded. When they drew apart for breath, the air between them seemed to crackle with static and longing.

“ _John,_ ” Hamilton breathed, slumping back in the chair and breathing in the scent of the man still perched on his lap. 

Laurens leaned forward to press a light kiss to the other man’s forehead, and Hamilton let his chin rest on his bare shoulder.

It felt like only seconds had passed, but Hamilton must have begun to doze, because the next thing he knew, Laurens was carefully disengaging himself from his seat. Hamilton made a moue of protest, but Laurens just laughed and took Hamilton’s unencumbered hand in his.

“Come to bed, Alexander. The General will never forgive me if you fall asleep during his meeting tomorrow.”

With a groan, Hamilton got to his feet and followed Laurens to the sleeping quarters. Most of the men shared beds to conserve space; until now, it had been merely an inconvenience, but for the first time, Hamilton considered himself immensely lucky. If he never slept alone again, it would be too soon.

They tiptoed into the sleeping quarters, careful not to wake the room’s other inhabitants. There were three beds in this room which they shared with three secretaries and a footman. Their bed was furthest from the door, and it was all they could do not to dissolve into a fit of laughter as they stepped carefully over piles of discarded garments and stacks of books in their way. Laurens pressed his fingers to his grinning lips and pushed Hamilton onto the coverlet with a playful shove, falling in next to him with a soft _whump._

Hamilton really was tired. He hadn’t slept properly in almost a week, and when he _had_ found time to retire to his bed, his nights had been spent restlessly. There was always something to occupy his mind – essays to be written, correspondences to be attended to, the General’s diary to organize, supplies to be relegated – so that sleep never came easily, and more often than not, he would spend the wee hours of the morning pacing the hall so as not to wake his bedfellow.

Now, however, he found himself struggling to stay awake. Laurens lay at his back, his chest fit snuggly into the curve of Hamilton’s spine, head tucked neatly into the bend of the taller man’s neck. The sensation of warm breath tickling his nape was strangely comforting, and as Laurens’ exhalations slowed into the steady, even rhythm of sleep, Hamilton felt his own doing the same.

\----------------------------------------

When Hamilton woke again, the room was quiet and, to all appearances, empty. The silence was disarming; he was usually the one awake before everyone else. Rarely did he stay abed past cock crow, but from the slant of light drifting in from the window overhead, it was obviously well into the early afternoon. He experienced a moment of panic – there had been a meeting scheduled for the morning, and he had certainly missed it. What would the General say?

Laurens pushed into the room to find a harried Hamilton frantically pulling on his boots, muttering under his breath as his untamed hair fell in front of his face and blocked his view of the tangled laces.

“How could you let me sleep so long?” Hamilton demanded as Laurens eased onto the edge of the bed.

Laurens put a hand on the other man’s knee and squeezed lightly.

“Alexander, _relax._ ”

“But I have a meeting, I need to—.”

“No, you don’t. I spoke to the General; when he heard that you were actually asleep, he told me not to bother you, that your meeting could wait.”

“Really?” Hamilton asked, incredulous.

“Really,” Laurens beamed, sliding closer to Hamilton across the coverlet. “You’re no good to anyone when you’re dead on your feet. America needs you with all of your faculties intact. Besides, no one likes you when you’re grumpy. Well, no one _really_ likes you, anyway…”

He was cut off by a shove to the chest and he fell backwards onto the bed, laughing heartily, Hamilton flopped down at his side.

“In that case,” Hamilton said, supporting his weight on one elbow as he gazed down at Laurens with unbridled affection, “how do you propose to use the morning?”

“Oh,” Laurens replied, reaching up to grab Hamilton by the collar and pull him down again, “I have a few ideas…”

**Author's Note:**

> ...yes, I did fix the word-count so that it would be 1776 words. Don't judge me.


End file.
